


Untitled

by wirefern



Category: Phantom Thread (2017)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, F/M, Flash Forward, Mild Sexual Content, Mommy Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-04-24 07:54:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14351187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wirefern/pseuds/wirefern
Summary: Alma and Reynolds do their thing.(This is in ongoing revision/rewrite status.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the thing I've written for Phantom Thread that I like the least. I just haven't been able to find a title or overall plot structure or even voice that doesn't grate on me. 🤷🏽
> 
> * I meant for this to be humorous, so I hope that comes across.
> 
> * There is some sex, but it's not described in explicit detail.
> 
> * My notes for this fic are [here](https://wirefern.tumblr.com/post/173771361771/ao3-notes-here-are-a-bunch-of-thoughts-reviews).

Reynolds wasn't sure what he'd done to deserve mushroom soup. Alma usually had a reason--or at least an excuse-- to kick him down a notch when she felt like it. But he couldn't recall snapping at her recently; it had been weeks since he last told her to just take her noisy toast and eat it in the kitchen, for fuck's sake. Perhaps he'd smiled and laughed with a client a bit too much for Alma's liking. Well, whatever the reason, he was getting mushroom soup, and he certainly wasn't going to turn it down.

He'd started the evening with a walk in light snow. The snow quickly grew heavy, and the pavement icy, so he cut it short and started back toward Fitzroy Square. He went into the house, hung up his coat, opened the door to the dining room and peeked inside. Then he stood in the middle of the foyer and called for Alma, and then he called for Cyril. One of them was always near enough to swiftly greet him and reassure him that the people he cared for hadn’t vanished into thin air while he was away. How could he manage an entire family of ghosts on his own? This was the kind of problem that woke him up at night and that he tried to distract himself from by thinking of the next day’s work instead. If he were lucky he’d die before both of them. Alma was young enough that he’d die long before her, surely-- unless she did something stupid, like catch tuberculosis, or eat her own secret mushrooms.

Alma came to him from the kitchen, kissed him, and took hold of his hands, rubbing them between her own.

“So cold!” she said. And then: “I made soup for you. To warm you.”

Soup was a surprise, but he had to accept her surprises without question. It made no difference if he had a dress to finish that night, or a design to sketch out. When she decided he needed settling down, there was no convincing her otherwise. His deadlines and obligations meant nothing to her. He had no choice but to surrender.

She led him to the kitchen, and poured him a glass of wine. She had a glass of her own on the counter, next to the stove and the simmering pot. Her lovely face was flushed from the wine and the steam from the soup, from love and anticipation of what was to come.

He strode up behind her, put his arms around her and nuzzled his face into her hair.

“The house is very quiet,” he murmured, gently kissing the back of her neck. She smelled like sandalwood and chicken broth. She'd obviously been in the kitchen for a while.

“I sent everyone home,” she told him. “Cyril went to dinner with a friend.” Alma turned in his embrace to face him, slid her arms around his neck, and said, “We’re alone.”

She ladled soup into a bowl and gave it to him. The carrot slices and diced potatoes were the ideal tenderness. Chicken fat glimmered on the surface of the soup, and when he lifted his spoon and stirred, julienned strips of zucchini and mushrooms floated up.

She leaned over his shoulder, slipped her fingertips into the bowl, and pinched up a bay leaf.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and kissed his cheek.

“It’s no bother,” he assured her.

She sat across the table from him, to watch him eat with that singular focus she reserved for this situation alone.

“Do you like it?” she asked, blushing and eager for his approval.

“Yes, it’s quite good!” he told her, and meant it. He was growing to crave the slightly bitter taste of Alma's mushrooms. It was a pity all the delicious food she wasted when they played her game. She’d probably spent most of the afternoon preparing this soup for him.

Her blush spread, and she smiled her shy smile, glancing away for a moment, and then, after a long pause, nodded and said quietly, almost to herself, _“yes.”_

~

Reynolds often drove his sedan very fast and took curves in the country roads without reducing speed, throwing caution to the wind. It was a great deal of fun. Alma liked this, too. It was a pastime of theirs, driving for hours, her body leaning into his with each turn. They longed for those fluttering instants when the curve came almost too quickly for him to correct it, leaving their lives to chance. They laughed and laughed; it was such a thrill.

Alma had promised that no matter how ill Reynolds was after one of her meals, he wouldn't die. And he trusted her, just as she trusted him and his wild driving. She'd also promised that he’d _wish_ he'd die, and this was true. If it was possible to die from pure mortification, he'd be dead by now. What he tolerated behind the bathroom door was a long fall for a man who'd refused to sit on the floor for a photo shoot. Alma, a sweet-faced sadist, didn't even attempt to hide her delight in his humiliation.

Then she'd tuck him into bed and dote on him with a mother's dedication and a gleeful lust that was all her own.

“Water for you,” she said, and made him drink. She wiped his face with a cool, damp towel, and stroked his hair, wet with perspiration.

“I love you,” she said, sitting in a chair close to his bed, holding his hands. “See? I take care of you. I love you...”

Alma would sit and stare at him all night as he moved in and out of consciousness. He found this simultaneously comforting and irritating, because she would wake him if he cried out. Sometimes he was glad to be saved from his dreams; other times, he resented being woken, wanting to remain inside them.


	2. Chapter 2

Reynolds woke suddenly, disoriented, in the flickering fire-light. And Alma was there right away, to take his hand.

"You're still too hot; have more water," she scolded. She had him sit up in bed, so she could put him in fresh pajamas. Sitting up made him dizzy. He pulled her near, to steady himself. His perspiration wet Alma's blouse and skirt when he pressed himself against her. This was a very intimate thing, that the heat of his fever left them both in damp clothing. Her eyes glowed with concern and a touch of excitement: the two of them were closer to each other this way than nude.

Alma stroked his hair and held his face between her hands. She felt an overwhelming love for him when he was like this. A proud, elegant man; a gifted artist, clever and strong. Yet here he was, brought to utter helplessness, and why? For her, simply because she wanted him so. Because she wanted the thrilling responsibility of knowing he trusted her with his life.

A woman had said to Alma at a party once, "He's a peculiar man, your husband. He's made several dresses for me over the years. He's very charming. Charismatic. We were certain he'd never marry. You’re set for life, now, I'm sure. Of course, a man like him has much to gain from this sort of marriage as well. We only wonder why it took him so long."

Alma left this party guest without a word and walked through the drawing room and a wide mirrored hall to find Reynolds where he was chatting with Cyril and a few friends. Alma put her arm through his, startling him. He looked down at her and smiled.

She felt very protective of Reynolds at times like that one. She wanted to bring him back to the country, to keep him safe in the country house, far away from those who would take what his talent produced and give him none of the respect he deserved in return. From those who saw the world only in binaries--right, wrong; correct, incorrect; one way and never the other-- with no appreciation for the inherent beauty of complexity...

"Alma," Reynolds muttered weakly, calling her back to the present moment and his current needs. "Don't forget my socks."

Gently guiding his limbs into a clean set of pajamas, Alma said, "I promise, I won't forget your socks."

"But you forgot them last time, Alma..." he protested. Even in his feverish state, his voice still had its sing-song affectation that grew more pronounced when he feared being ignored.

"I won't forget your socks. I have them right here." She knelt on the floor and pulled fuchsia socks, one by one, up to his knees. Then she nudged him to lie down and tugged the blankets up to his chest.

It was late and the fire provided the only light in the room. The snow had turned to sleet; ice ticked fast against the windows. Alma sat in the chair she'd dragged close to the bed. She leaned forward with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, to watch him sleep. She'd watch for hours, mesmerizing herself. Her mind would wander. She'd imagine their coming years together, in body...and then the years that would follow, after Reynolds' spirit left his body, while Alma's spirit remained in hers. A slight pause in time before their souls were reunited again.

~

While Reynolds often thought about the past, reminiscing held no pleasure for Alma. 

_"I rescued this lace from Antwerp during the war,"_ he'd said during their first few weeks together. She'd had to bite her tongue not to add, "I rescued _myself_ from the war." 

Alma had several photographs of family members, including a few of her mother. She never did show these pictures to Reynolds. After their first dinner together, he didn't ask to see them again. The photographs curled at the corners, seeming to grow more faded each time she held them. It hurt her to look at them. She preferred to focus on the world she currently inhabited, this new family she'd worked so hard to assert herself into.

"Ill _again,_ " Cyril remarked with a sigh the following morning, when Reynolds failed to appear at breakfast. Cyril knew by now this was her sister in law's doing.

"Really, Alma?" Cyril continued. "You do realize I have a business to run, don't you? His presence is imperative."

"I'm sorry," Alma blushed. "I cooked some soup last night and I...I couldn't help myself."

"Try not to be so impulsive. Let me know ahead of time, so I can plan for it."

Alma nodded. She'd seen the cold, bleak sky the day before, and felt a strong desire to have Reynolds tucked in bed that night, warm-- _too_ warm-- in the close, private world of his room. Alma alone controlled this world, in which he was completely reliant on her. A tremble went through her when she thought of this control. She could almost taste it--this powerful emotion that was also, somehow, like a physical hunger. There was no way to explain it. Cyril, certainly, didn't understand it.

And, thank God, Cyril didn't _want_ to understand it.

~

"He's better this way!" Alma had argued, when Cyril found out her mushroom trick. "He's not so much a tyrant now. You know it's true!"

Cyril made the discovery over a year ago, very soon after Alma and Reynolds returned from the country with their love reinvigorated after a bout of the illness not unlike the one he'd suffered just before their marriage. After surviving this second round, Reynolds apparently had reversed his arguments that Alma didn't belong in the house, that Alma destroyed his self-confidence, and that Alma turned Cyril against him, plus everything else included on his list of Alma-related complaints.

It happened like this: Alma had woken earlier than usual to have the kitchen to herself, to make a special breakfast for Reynolds: porridge with currants, and cinnamon and nutmeg: strong flavored spices, to mask a bitter taste.

She was working at the stove when she heard the door shut in the front hallway, followed by the steady click of Cyril's shoes across the foyer.

Alma froze.

"Look who's up early," Cyril remarked, entering the kitchen.

"And you as well...?" Alma winced at her involuntary tone of hesitation.

"My friend had an early train. I wanted to see her off." Cyril glanced into the pot heating on the stove. "This looks delicious. For my brother, I presume."

"Yes." Alma felt the flush come over her cheeks that always betrayed her, that stole her own words from her.

"Reynolds prefers for Julie to fix breakfast. You know that."

"But it's a surprise. A breakfast surprise. He'll like it." Alma turned to the pot, stirring.

Cyril moved closer, raising an eyebrow, knowing she was onto something. Her confidence fed Alma's discomfort.

"Might I try some?" she asked.

Alma stared at her, blank eyed, and then, simply: "No."

"And why not?"

Alma's neck and even her temples prickled with the heat of her blush. Cyril's facial expression did not alter, but the light in her eyes shifted slightly.

A cold stretch of silence, followed by:

"Alma, I know what you're doing, though for the life of me, I can't imagine _why_. And how often now? Twice? Three times? This cannot continue: you'll kill him."

"It's just enough so he settles down. And you know he's been better, less fussy....and he's strong! He takes walks everyday, eats plenty...he's healthy." Still seeing no change in Cyril-- not even a tilt of her head or the blink of an eye-- Alma added, "and it calms him. It's good for him to slow down--"

Cyril cut her off. "You can't possibly be serious."

"Yes--"

"Well, Alma, this ends immediately. You are no longer to feed my brother anything with the intention of making him ill. Am I clear?"

"Yes." Alma nodded, pushing her hands into the pockets of her apron, dismayed. To argue with fickle Reynolds was one thing; what he wanted and believed one day was likely to change by the next. Cyril, however, always stood her ground.

Alma didn't tell Reynolds about this exchange with his sister. But weeks past, and then months, and noticing that Alma still wasn't fixing special tea or cooking for him, he became increasingly cranky. His irritation with crunchy toast caused its banning from the breakfast table. He complained about too much butter in almost all of his food, even food that didn't contain any butter at all. And Cyril's work was interrupted daily by his impassioned rants in her office on topics ranging from Chanel's slim suits to nylon's very existence to Yardley lavender, which had become a sudden rage among the seamstresses in the attic.

Cyril had lost her tolerance for Reynolds' moaning. After decades of perfecting a management strategy for her brother, Alma had undone it all with a pot of tea and a mushroom omelette.

Alma had a special project going on around this time: She'd put herself hard to work on designing a dress with Pippa. The young women were working together one evening when Cyril entered the room, looked Alma in the eye, and said:

"Alright, Alma. Do it again."

Alma looked up and smiled. She kept her preciously drawn-out silences only for Reynolds. To Cyril, she briskly replied, "Of course. Right away."

She had a sizable stash of mushrooms: some full and dried, to be reconstituted in hot water, and some ground down in the pestle. She put Reynolds' teapot on a tray, sprinkled a dusting of shaved mushrooms into the hot water, and hurried light-footed up the stairs.

Reynolds was at the table in his room--a room Alma hadn't slept in for several weeks, since he'd begun to complain about her rolling over in bed too often, thus disrupting his preferred sleeping position of lying flat on his back with the blankets pulled tight around his body. 

She entered without knocking and set the tray on the table. Reynolds didn't bother glancing at her; instead, he pushed his glasses further up his nose, leaned closer to his sketchbook, and said, "I don't want tea, Alma. Take it out."

His resistance delighted her. "Drink your tea," she firmly told him.

Reynolds looked up at her, visibly annoyed. In fact, his face held an expression of near contempt. He was angry with her: she'd abandoned him for over a month. Why had she stopped hurting him the way they both loved so much?

Alma leaned forward and placed her hands flat on the table.

"Drink it."

He raised an eyebrow. Took a sip. Stared up at her.

"And more," she said, almost gently now.

Reynolds' quick twitch of a restrained smile; Alma's bottom-lip-biting grin.

"Still a little more, I think...," she said.

He poured himself a second cup, and drained it fast. He pulled her into his lap for frantic kisses: wet and hungry kisses bestowed without self-consciousness. When she wanted to give him every part of herself, he would take all she had without hesitation, never once considering that he deserved anything less.

"I thought you'd forgotten. Or that you were tired of it. Tired of me, perhaps." With his hands on the back of her neck, fingers holding tight in her slightly-tangled hair. This was the only time he ever spoke self-depreciatingly, quickly unraveling, becoming vulnerable in all ways. "Are you tired of me, Alma?"

"Never. I think about it all the time. I think about you, always. I love you, love you--"

"But Alma, why did you _wait_ so long?"

His hands in the small of her back now, her knees jammed against the chair back. She looked at him and said nothing, prompting a _"well?_ Why?"

"You were getting used to it. You should be afraid. You _need_ to be afraid. And only I can help you." (And this was partially true; she occasionally worried that he'd grow immune to the mushrooms and she'd have to come up with some other means of knocking him out.)

"I am afraid! It's terrifying! Do you have any idea, Alma? What it's like? To see the edge of death, Alma...."

Alma had no clue what it felt like to be as miserably ill as she'd seen Reynolds. She'd rarely been sick as a child. But nevertheless, she said: "Of course I know. And I know how to make you well." She smiled and kissed him. "And I will always be waiting for you when you wake."

Reynolds carefully undid the first few buttons of her blouse, to kiss the hollow of her throat and, very tentatively--almost reverently-- the tops of her breasts. He looked up at her: she nodded, said, "yes." 

He pulled her tight, kissed her mouth hard, making her laugh. And he laughed, too. They laughed like children conspiring together to do something forbidden. She felt his skin warming up as he kissed her. When sweat started beading along the swoop of his hairline, she said, "Alright, come on!," climbed off of his lap and took his hand.

Playing nurse was her favorite part. She had very dark fantasies. They would shock Reynolds, when she confessed them to him, though he'd soften toward them and gradually see their benefit. Within ten years from now--maybe more? or less?--she'd scheme a way to leave him bedridden, for good. If he still wanted to work on his sketches, fine: he could do that from this room, or the bedroom in the country house. Alma and Pippa might even sew some of the designs; a three-part collaboration. And Alma would bring him everything he loved to eat, and she'd nap in his arms, the calming weight of her head on his chest.

This was still a tiny seed in her mind. She'd discovered long ago, though, that with a bit of planning and patience, she always got her way...


	3. Chapter 3

"....let me know ahead of time, so I can plan for it."

Alma turned her focus back to Cyril.

“You understand that it's about him more than the dresses. _He's_ what the clients pay for. They're bored with their husbands and they want the touch and attention of a handsome man whom they can control."

How odd to hear Cyril say these things; they were the very thoughts Alma kept hidden in the back of her own head. How odd it was to have her own secret perception confirmed.

"His dresses are beautiful," Alma offered in his defense. "They're just...just a little dated. Doesn't he look at Vogue? And Women's Wear Daily, when we receive it?"

 _"I_ read Vogue. He never picks it up. He lives in his own world. His own time."

"Yes," Alma agreed. “He does.”

Alma refilled her teacup. The women were quiet for a moment, and then, from Cyril:

"He rather enjoys it, doesn't he? Being laid up in bed."

Alma hoped Cyril wouldn't notice the hot flush that came over her cheeks upon hearing this. As far as Cyril knew, Alma spiked her brother's food and tea as a punishment, a simple disciplinary measure that, though perverse, offered advantages for the entire household. That Reynolds derived pleasure from it was a secret Alma preferred to keep between herself and her husband. Cyril still called Dr. Hardy from time to time; he'd come over for a perfunctory examination in the bedroom upstairs and then a martini with one or both of the Mrs. Woodcocks downstairs.

"It's our mother's fault. She gave us laudanum when we were ill as children."

Alma took a bite of her danish and glanced at the window. The sleet had turned back to snow.

"He made himself very ill during the war. It was entirely his own fault; he refused to eat wheatmeal bread, tinned meat, margarine...if it wasn't rationed, he didn't want it. And I wasn't about to give him _my_ share of bacon just because he wouldn't stop whining."

Alma smiled, and Cyril continued. "We closed this house and went to the country then. I did quite a bit of gardening. We had carrots, lettuce, beans... And the woods are full of mushrooms, as you know. But correct identification is essential."

Cyril lifted her teacup again, eyeing Alma over the rim. Meeting her eyes, Alma said, "I've seen the garden. It's overgrown. I could plant it again."

"I think that would be a fine project for you, Alma." A rare smile from Cyril. "I suppose you can't see me with dirt under my fingernails, can you?" She sighed, remembering. "I made myself a pair of corduroy trousers. I'll look for them, and you can have them if you like. Trust me, you'll want them when you're kneeling in the dirt all day. It was hard work, but I did enjoy it."

Cyril, still and thoughtful, added, "We did what we had to do though, didn't we? During the war."

Alma nodded. "Yes," she said. "We did."

Cyril stared at Alma as though expecting the younger woman to elaborate. Instead, Alma said, "I'll go to Reynolds now. He'll want me there when he wakes." Then, without hesitation, she excused herself from the table, trying to resist biting a hangnail on her thumb--her nervous tic.

~

Typically when ill, Reynolds would sleep for about twelve solid hours. He'd wake up giddy-- realizing he hadn't died--delightfully physically affectionate, and voraciously hungry. Alma was responsible for being sure there was something satisfying for him to eat when he woke. This time, she had lamb chops wrapped in butcher paper in the refrigerator; she'd serve them with mint sauce. If he wasn't in the mood for lamb, sausages and eggs were a good bet; she always had some on hand.

Upstairs, Reynolds slept, stretched out as straight and still as ever. Even in sleep his appearance was very precise.

Seeing him at rest made Alma aware of her own exhaustion. The left side of the bed called to her, but she hesitated and went into Reynolds' closet to rifle through his slacks. He had a great deal of clothes; more than Alma, even with the numerous dresses she'd acquired over the past few years.

There were some trousers she knew he didn’t favor. She took down a hanger, removed her skirt, and stepped into the legs. Only slightly loose around her waist (he was so _thin_ ), these had cuffs that pooled around her ankles. She looked at herself in the closet's full length mirror. The cuffs could easily be hemmed, but it was difficult for her to picture the slacks altered for her body and hanging correctly. She'd take these-- he’d never miss them--and experiment. She was already curious to see how it would feel to wear them.

Then she was onto the bed, sinking down fast.

It seemed she’d barely shut her eyes before Reynolds was waking her. He’d found an irritating means of doing it, too: her blouse unbuttoned all the way, his mouth on her nipple, sucking hard. With teeth.

"Ouch!" she cried, sitting up and pushing him away. He'd never done such a thing as this to her, ever.

"You barely have any breasts, Alma."

Too alarmed to respond to this comment with the sting that it deserved, she said, stunned, "You've always told me they were perfect..."

"Yes, perfect for dresses. When it comes to my arousal, however, they’re lacking."

Disoriented, she could only spit out, "I’m sorry—"

"But, Alma, they were so _nice_ when you were pregnant--"

 _"Pregnant?_ You’re delirious!"

Alma rubbed her eyes, got off of the bed and stood up. The slacks hung over the back of the chair. She picked them up and asked, "Aren’t you hungry? Come downstairs and I’ll make you something to eat."

Reynolds had his glasses on and the beside lamp lit. As he reached for his book, he looked at her, raised an eyebrow, and said, "Will you not bring it to me?"

"Of course I can bring it to you, but aren’t you tired of lying in bed?"

"No, I certainly am not!" He seemed quite hurt by this question. "Are you teasing me, Alma? Because I don’t like being teased."

"That's rather unfair considering that just a moment ago--"

"You know very well I can’t go downstairs. I'll be exhausted! Are you trying to kill me? Would you like me to climb down all of those stairs so that you can kill me, Alma?"

"Alright, don’t come down then. I’ll bring it to you."

What a relief to leave that room. Oh, this was Reynolds at his absolute worst. Alma couldn't remember the last time he'd been so horrible. She tossed the slacks across the stair railing and forgot about them almost immediately.

In the kitchen, she tried to distract herself from her anger by heating the cast iron pan, turning the flame up high and passive-aggressively dropping a large square of butter into the center. As soon as it started bubbling, and she unwrapped the meat, her temper weakened. Thinking about Reynolds enjoying food she'd made for him was one of the great pleasures in her life. She wanted to do a good job for him.

But when she brought the tray to him, he looked at it and frowned.

"Where's my martini?"

"You want a martini? Won’t that burn your throat a bit?" He'd never requested a martini so soon after falling ill.

"No! It will not!" He said, inexplicably angry. There was obviously something going on with him; he was acting so strangely. Alma tilted her head, determined now to figure out where his mind was. He’d never appeared so confused before. Perhaps she’d finally put him over the edge. She must have been too generous with the mushrooms in the soup. She’d have to be more careful from now on. She'd never intended to do permanent damage to him. For the first time ever, she had a flash of regret...

Her charitable mood did not last long.

She noticed the book facedown on the bed. It was not his sketchbook. Instead, it was an ordinary book. The spine said: _Cactuses_.

"Where's your notebook?" she asked. "Why on earth are you reading that?"

"I've already finished the mushroom one."

"That explains nothing."

"This book is informative. I enjoy it. Am I not allowed to enjoy a book for once in my life? Must I design dresses, always, even here, on what may be my deathbed? You and Cyril will take everything out of me, won't you? Every cell in my brain, for dresses? Until I'm dead, Alma?" He looked over the top of his glasses at her, his eyes hard and serious. "And while you’re criticizing me—"

"I’m not—"

"--tearing me to shreds: it is one thing to hurt me, I’ll survive, I’m a grown man—"

"Oh, are you now?"

"--but to leave the baby alone with the nanny, all night. _Again._ Why are you doing this to your son, Alma? You may hurt me again and again, I will tolerate it, but you _know_ how important it is for him to sleep in the bed with _his mama!_ "

Reynolds pronounced _mama_ with an emphasis on the second _a_ , which Alma--having learned German and French before English-- found quite pretentious, even for Reynolds. She stared at him, baffled and furious, as he continued:

"--You choose not to sleep in this bed, with me, Alma, that is fine, three bodies in one bed is quite bit, I can see your argument there. But you cannot sleep in the other room and then lie to me and tell me that you’ve had him with you all night—"

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

Eyes wide, not even hearing her, talking over her, he raged on:

"—convince the nanny to lie to me all you like, Alma, but it makes no difference. I can tell in the morning when I hold him that he’s been without you _all night long!_ And I was so clear with you about this, Alma! From the very beginning, I told you this is the one thing I will not compromise on! A boy only has eleven or twelve years to sleep next to his mother—“

_”Twelve years?!”_

Reynolds went quiet, like a faucet being shut off. He had an expression of such genuine pain on his face that she really did feel sympathy for him, in his confusion. But he was worked up and not about to let her off so easily for this slight, no matter that he’d imagined it up.

“Take this away, Alma,” he ordered, gesturing at the tray in his lap. “You’ve ruined my appetite.”

She picked it up.

“Take it out,” he repeated.

“I’m _taking_ it out—“

“—and hurry with the martini.”

“You still want a martini?”

“Yes!” He was absolutely exasperated, as though none of her responses were clear to him, as if she were the one speaking as though deranged.

When she was at the door, he added, in a matter-of-fact tone, "I love you."

She glanced back at him: He'd picked up the book and was looking at it very seriously, his mind already elsewhere. She replied, gently, "I love you, too," but he didn't raise his eyes from the pages.

~

Downstairs, with the tray of cooling lamb chops in her hands, Alma found Cyril. The woman was pulling on her coat, reaching for her purse.

"Are you going out? In this weather?" Alma asked.

"Well, yes. The weather really isn’t very bad."

"Perhaps not." The snow must not have piled up as much as Alma thought earlier. Then she noticed Cyril's clothing:

“Oh, you found the trousers!”

Cyril glanced down. “Yes, I suppose I did.” She frowned.

Alma couldn't help but feel a little hurt, since Cyril had promised the trousers to her. Perhaps, on finding them, Cyril had decided to keep them for herself. And they weren’t the corduroy she'd described, but what appeared to be a dark gray wool and cashmere blend.

“Why don't you come along, Alma?”

"Oh." Alma looked at the tray in her hands, her wrinkled clothing. "I need to change." It seemed she'd had on the same blouse and pleated skirt for days. "And I have to get Reynolds his martini first."

Cyril shook her head and went to take Alma's coat from the closet. "You look fine. And Reynolds doesn't need another martini. His interpretation of 'moderate alcohol intake' is certainly more flexible than the cardiologist's."

Slowly, cautiously, Alma asked, "And...I should...kiss the baby? Good night?" A wave of terror came over her. If there _was_ a baby-- _her_ baby, born out of nowhere!--how would she survive laying eyes on it? Her heart would burst.

The usual tightness around Cyril's eyes and lips vanished, revealing a tenderness Alma rarely saw. "Of course you should kiss him if you'd like. But the nanny just got him to sleep."

"But Reynolds..."

"Don't let Reynolds guilt you, Alma. That child's terribly spoiled as it is. Reynolds has been cuddling him and reading to him all day long." Cyril looked at Alma and sighed. "Put your coat on. We'll be late if we don't leave now."

Alma followed Cyril outside, surprised to find that the steps were no longer slick with ice. But it was chilly still; she tightened the belt around her coat.

Walking to the restaurant without Reynolds left Alma with a bittersweet feeling.

"Oh, doesn't he miss coming here?" she asked. Her heart ached already thinking of how strange it would be to sit at their table without him.

"Just another week or so of bed rest, and he'll be up and about again. Though I'm not sure how much he'll enjoy going out, considering he's been forbidden from eating rich food."

"Yes, that's...very unfortunate." Alma was starting to gather bits of information together, to clarify this new world...

"No rich food, no mental stress. Thank god for Robert Hardy's diamorphine. I believe Reynolds will be unbearable without it." Cyril gave Alma a quick, sharp glance. "I feel I shouldn't have to say this, Alma, but even when he's back on his feet: no more mushrooms. And no arsenic, of course."

"Of course," Alma said quietly. _Arsenic?_ Really? How terrible she must have become. And yet, arsenic may be worth some consideration...

They entered the restaurant; the maitre d' greeted them as they removed their coats. They went to their usual table and sat. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for Reynolds' absence.

But Alma noticed something unusual about the restaurant patrons. The room was crowded with diners standing and sitting, moving about, laughing, and greeting each other. Amongst all this activity, she gradually realized that there were many pairs of trousers in the room. Men _and women_ were wearing trousers, in different fabrics and colors. So few women wore dresses, in fact, that Alma felt conspicuous in her skirt.

A pair of women called for Cyril from the bar.

"Excuse me for a moment, Alma..." And then Alma was alone at the table, leaning back into the corner and surveying the room. Puzzling it over.

The waiter brought a bottle of wine and filled her glass. Look at how freely the women move in their slacks, Alma thought, how they could stand as close as a man could in a conversation, without the stiff ring of a petticoat to isolate them, no satin trains to hold up, so they could have their drinks in one hand and gesture freely with the other. It was startling, yet fascinating, to see how the slacks skimmed over the women's hips and thighs. Some of the trousers were looser than others, but all were cut in a masculine style. The colors and fabrics varied. Some, like Cyril's, were rather reserved: gray or navy, in wool blends. Others were in satin as brightly colored as any of Reynolds' dresses.

The colors and types of these slacks flew through Alma's mind like catalog pages. She coveted so many of them. She thought of the pair of Reynolds' trousers she'd left on the upstairs railing, which she'd intended to alter to fit herself, and felt foolish over the idea of attempting something so amateur.

"Mrs. Woodcock?"

Alma looked up. Two young women--about Pippa's age, or a little younger--flushed, excited, and fidgeting anxiously before her.

"Yes?" Alma said, quietly, a shyness coming over her as though the women's nervousness was contagious.

One of the women began to speak quickly, her blush spreading. "Mrs. Woodcock, we just wanted to tell you how much we love your ladies' trousers!"

The other girl added, "We love all of them! So many chic colors--"

"We wear your trousers everywhere!"

"I wear the wool trousers to my job!"

"And I wear them to university!"

 _My_ trousers? Alma took a sip of wine and stared at the table, at her chewed-up cuticles and fingertips calloused by countless pin-pricks. Then, at last:

"I'm very happy you like them." She winced at her accent; Alma so rarely spoke with anyone outside the Woodcocks' house that she'd forgotten the sound of her own voice.

"These slacks have changed my life," the first woman said.

"She really means it," added the other.

"Um." Alma glanced toward the bar, where Cyril was still engaged in conversation with her friends. Taking a deep breath, Alma asked, "Would...would you care to join me?"

"Really? We don't want to impose..."

"Not at all..." Alma thought her voice sounded a bit stronger this time.

The women slid into the booth beside her. The waiter brought more wine. And then, to the young women, Alma said, "Please tell me about your job. And university! What is it like? I want to hear all about it!"

The young women smiled, blushing happily, and began speaking animatedly about a job in an office, about classes at the university. Later, Cyril and her friends joined them, and when it was time to leave, Alma was dizzy from wine and the voices of women talking about the many things in the world unrelated to dressmaking.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been revised five or six times.

"Alma."

Someone gently pushed at Alma's shoulder.

"Alma, wake up, please. I'm very hungry."

She blinked awake and turned over. Reynolds sat upright beside her in the bed, an urgent expression on his narrow, foxlike face.

"I'm absolutely famished, Alma. I'm starving."

Alma reached for his hand and squeezed it, then rolled into his lap.

"I had a wonderful dream," she told him, still dazed. She nuzzled against his chest. He smelled like their bed, or perhaps it was that the bed smelled like him. He and the bed were two parts that together made a distinct whole.

"Did I have something to eat in this dream? If so, I dare say we might make your dream a reality."

Only half listening to him, she continued. "I think I dreamt you had a heart attack."

"Was I dead?"

"No, you were alive. I took care of you." Alma held tight to him, feeling very tender toward him. "And we had a baby." She told Reynolds these things, but the dream-image that stood out most clearly in her mind was that of herself, sitting at the restaurant table, praised by strangers for clothing she'd created.

Reynolds put his arms around her, leaned back into the pillows, and tucked his chin over the top of her head. He was still for a moment and then responded quietly:

"A heart attack sounds quite painful. Do you think it would be painful, Alma?"

"Yes."

"Could you make me have one, please? Just a small one."

"I don't know....I don't think so."

"Hmm."

He stroked her hands and wove his fingers between hers. "What was our baby like?"

"Just an ordinary baby, I suppose."

After a little bit, he asked, "And when are we going to have a baby, Alma?"

She wiggled her head out from under Reynolds' chin and said, "I don’t know. When would you like one?"

"Soon, I believe. I could die at any time. Especially if I'm going to have a heart attack."

"Just because I dreamt you had a heart attack doesn't mean you'll have one," Alma said.

"Dreams are premonitions, Alma. We can't ignore them. They're significant. You know that my father died when I was very young. I'd like to have some time with my children before I'm dead. And I'd like at least two or three children, please."

He said this as if ordering food at a restaurant. "Just one would be quite lonely, don't you think?" he explained; and then, before she could interject, he continued. "Do you have any siblings, Alma? Do you have a sister?"

Alma had told Reynolds about her family several times, but his memory for things she'd told him about herself was not especially strong.

"Yes, I had siblings," she said. "Most of my relatives are dead now," she noted quickly, so that he wouldn't ask about them.

"That's why it's best to have several babies," Reynolds wisely observed. "You never know when one could die."

"That's true," Alma agreed. And then: "When would you like to begin conceiving these children?"

Reynolds tilted his head and stared at her quizzically.

"Well?" She turned in his lap to face him, fiddling with the buttons on his pajama top.

"I'm rather hungry at the moment, Alma--"

"So am I." She took hold of the waistband of his pajamas, looked at him and said: "But not for food."

"I fear I'll become lightheaded."

"You'll survive."

He acquiesced and allowed her to remove his pajamas. Then he stretched out on his back in the bed, as she'd trained him. She found his serious expression and compliance touching, so she told him, “When you’re done, I’ll cook lamb chops for you, with mint sauce, or sausages and eggs. Or I can warm up the mushroom soup. There's a good bit left....and I can't give it to anyone but you.”

”The soup from last night? Oh, I'd like that very much! Would you, please?” This offer surprised them both. She’d never fed him mushrooms two nights in a row. It was, assuredly, a terrible idea. Terrible ideas, however, propelled their entire relationship.

”Yes.”

”And the lamb as well?”

Alma smiled, tossed her skirt on the floor, and answered: ”Yes.”

He put his hands on her warm bare hips and said, “That sounds quite nice.”

She raised her eyes from his torso to his face, her grin devious. “And now you have something to think about, while I love you.”

He nodded as though this were a good point, a suggestion that was actually helpful. (And the firmness in her hand told her it was.)

Alma had learned early on that Reynolds expected her to take the initiative in their lovemaking. He disdained strenuous physical exertion, untidiness, and loss of control; Alma was responsible for forcing these things out of him. He was, frankly, an unsatisfactory lover. And until now, this had not been a great concern for Alma because she was used to efficiently satisfying herself in a hot bath, often while he was passed out after being sick.

But Reynolds would have to work harder and participate more if he wanted a baby--or however many babies-- with Alma.

She told him as much afterward, when he lay beneath her, out of breath, his chest hair matted with sweat. He probably _was_ lightheaded. Alma smiled at the thought, and kept her head on his overheated chest, adding a touch of extra pressure on his lungs and racing heart, to hurt him just a little bit, for good measure.

While her mind was on the topic of babies, Alma said, ”I don’t think our children should sleep in our bed with us.”

”Where did that idea come from?" Reynolds asked. After a moment, he added, "Not at all? Never?”

”I don’t see any benefit in it.”

They were quiet; he stroked her hair, with its halo of frizz.

Then he said, “It seems a very pleasant thing for a child, to sleep next to his parents: A very safe feeling.”

She sat up. “Life isn’t safe,” she told him.

"But a mother's job is to make it _feel_ safe."

There was a long silent exchange between the two of them, an understanding that in addition to the decades that separated them, the experiences of their childhoods created a gulf between them as well. And Alma thought: _how selfish it is to spoil a child._ Reynolds had no sense of the world; he cringed from all new trends--not just fashion trends, but music and art as well. He feared deviations from his routine, loud noises, crowded rooms, dancing, unfamiliar food, sitting with his back to the door in restaurants, riding in automobiles driven by people he didn't know well, both alpine and cross-country skiing, intimacy _and_ isolation. It seemed to Alma that only a mother could have done this to him.

Yet Alma already felt the pull to shelter and pamper her own child in just the same manner.

 _I’ll enjoy spoiling him all I can,_ she thought, _and have my fill of it. Reynolds was ruined before I even got here...before I was even born. So I can't take the blame._

With this in mind, she said, "I’ll run a bath for you. And then I’ll cook for you. The lamb, and some soup." She thought of her dream for a moment, then said: "If you'd like, I can bring your food to you, so you don't have to bother yourself with coming downstairs."

"Here, in this room?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I'd like that very much!"

"And a martini, perhaps?"

"Yes, please!" He appeared delighted by these simple offers, which it had never before occurred to him to request of her. (From now on, he'd always expect them.)

While Reynolds was in the warm bath, Alma replaced the bed linens with fresh ones and set a stack of folded towels on the table. She changed into a clean dress and pondered over Reynolds' various cologne bottles. She selected one, touched some cologne on her wrists and behind her ears, and then padded barefoot downstairs to the kitchen.

~

Alone in his room, waiting for Alma to bring his dinner, Reynolds pulled a cardigan over his pajamas and and then his robe over the cardigan. Ever since Alma's buttered asparagus dinner, he'd taken to wearing his pajamas under various layers of clothing: jackets, waistcoats, cardigans, scarves. Not only did these ensembles keep him warm and cozy, he believed he looked quite stylish in them as well. (This was up for debate.) Next, he found his slippers lined up neatly just beneath his bed, as he liked them to remain when he wasn't wearing them. For some reason, a pair of his slacks was left on the back of a chair. He picked them up and noticed that the cuffs were folded and pinned. Alma must have done this. Did she mean to wear his slacks? Had they been invited to another dreadful fancy-dress party? He smiled; if this were a joke, it was a sweet joke. Perhaps she'd like a men's jacket as well! The thought of Alma in men's clothing was oddly stirring.

Before he could give this image more consideration, he heard the echoing murmur of voices in the downstairs foyer. He opened the door and looked out.

"Lamb and mint. I can smell it from the top of the house..." Oh, his sister.

Reynolds stepped into the alcove between the doorway of his room and the hall at the top of the stairs, crossed his arms over his chest, and listened.

Cyril's voice carried up: "--were we or were we not discussing this very issue at breakfast? Did I not make myself clear then, Alma? And what did I tell you?"

"-- _I_ can do the fitting tomorrow! Mrs. Vaughan likes me--"

"And what did I _tell you?"_ Reynolds knew Cyril's steel-eyed glare that was sure to accompany this tone of voice.

"That he can't be ill so often. It hurts business. But..." Alma pressed, "I think you're wrong."

"Do you now? Please, enlighten me."

Alma 's accented voice was so quiet that it was difficult to make out her words, even with the echo of the marble floors and staircases, the high ceilings. But Reynolds knew her intonations-- and the shy yet conniving way her eyes darted --well enough to fill in anything his ears missed, to picture her face as she spoke: "Um, Countess Henrietta has...has not been here."

"That's correct."

"And Mrs. Rose..." Alma tread carefully here; even Cyril's best attempts at damage control couldn't undo the theft of a paid-in-full dress right off of a patron's body. Barbara Rose--along with her money--was gone, too.

Alma continued, with surprising, stinging words: "You know Reynolds has very few new ideas. He does nothing to keep up. His clients aren't coming back. Give me a chance. Pippa and I have sold two dresses on our own now--"

"Your dresses are not to Reynolds' taste."

"Reynolds doesn't have to buy them! Or wear them!"

Oh, his girl! The mother of his future children! Alma, with her lovely mask-like face, the flicker of a smile hiding on her lips. She saw and comprehended everything, quietly tucking her observations of the Woodcock house close inside, so she could pull them out when they suited her. Listen to how she didn't even hesitate to cut to the quick!

He needed to think. The best way to do that was with a pen in hand: he found his sketchbook, flipped to a clean page, and very rapidly began to draw in fast angled strokes. The House of Woodcock had created a line of women's jackets several years ago, but this new jacket needed to pair with trousers, not a pencil skirt. Loose-fitting trousers, the current style for men; a daring woman could fill these out nicely...

He sketched and thought. First: Cyril knew! Alma must have been careless; he should have warned her not to cook so often in the townhouse kitchen; her mushrooms belonged in the magic of the country house. He should have acted more concerned about his health; he hadn't even tried to hide his eagerness for Alma to pull him down into the special darkness she conjured up for him alone.

And next: how quickly and cruelly Alma spoke the truth. Because it was true: he had no inspiration, no energy. The dresses he'd made since marrying Alma were often nothing more than modifications on past designs. He couldn't look to the work of his peers; they moved in new directions, while he remained static. Chanel was taking risks --both financially and stylistically-- by expanding commercially. Reynolds detested the cinema, but Givenchy's collaboration with Audrey Hepburn could not be ignored. Alma, really, was to blame. She'd fueled all of his work for over two years, and no other model would ever replace her. But Reynolds' drive to put her in beautiful dresses was gone. He longed for her one way, now: in a simple dress, like the one she'd worn that first night he took her to dinner. In an apron, or even barefoot: a housewife, a mother. A young woman in the country, gathering mushrooms, had no need for ballgowns.

Reynolds returned to the top of the stairs and said, loudly--which was difficult, as he was naturally soft-spoken: "Cyril! Please listen to Alma!"

Cyril stepped into the foyer, cigarette and matches in hand, lifted her face upward, frowned, and said, "Don't shout, Reynolds. Come downstairs if you wish to speak with me."

"Alma told me to stay in my room. I've been unwell."

"I can see the feast she's preparing for you in the kitchen, and it does not look like anything an unwell man should consume." Lighting her cigarette with the flash of a match, Cyril added, "I trust you'll be _well enough_ to keep your appointment with Mrs. Vaughan in the morning."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps not. But Alma can take my place, if I'm under the weather. It's only a few alterations. She will manage it handily."

Cyril turned toward the kitchen door and said, sternly, "Alma, come here."

Alma appeared, drying her hands on her apron. She tilted her head up toward Reynolds, where he leaned over the banister. "Reynolds!" Alma said, and blushed, simply because she was happy. She was so fresh-faced and pretty that Reynolds immediately forgave her for hurting his feelings only moments ago.

"Alma, can you think of any reason why my brother might feel under the weather tonight, or tomorrow, when he's to meet with Mrs. Vaughan?"

"Perhaps..." Alma shrugged, her face flushed, eyes still on Reynolds, full of love. "Perhaps he may eat something that...that doesn't sit well with him...?"

"I hate to sound accusatory, Alma, but considering that he was sick after eating your soup last night, another serving seems rather ill-advised."

Reynolds gestured widely downward at both women. " _I_ am hungry...and Alma loves me! I'm hard-pressed to imagine a more _well_ -advised meal!" Then he added, for his sister: "You're merely jealous that you haven't a beautiful girl who'll bring you delicious things to eat."

Exhaling a cloud of cigarette smoke, Cyril replied: "I can assure you, I suffer from no lack in that regard."

Reynolds had a sense that standing above Alma and Cyril leant gravitas to everything he'd said since coming out of his room. Feeling impassioned, he leaned farther over the banister and announced, "Well, my old so-and-so, you may as well get used to working with Alma because I"-- he paused, wanting to be sure that his words were taken seriously, "--have retired."

"What?" asked Alma, startled, Cyril, with a skeptical tone, added, "Oh, really?"

"Yes. I have acknowledged to myself that my days are not unlimited, and neither is my energy. If I'm going to know my children well before I'm gone, I must focus myself entirely on their conception, which must happen as soon as possible. I've wasted too much time making dresses, which will only crumble into dust...time that I could have spent on more important pursuits."

Alma scrunched her nose in an expression of confused incredulousness, while Cyril snorted dismissively. To this, Reynolds held his hands open over the railing and firmly said, "Well?!"

Once again, both women spoke simultaneously from the foyer below him: "But do you still want your soup, Reynolds?" called Alma, and, from Cyril: "Just to be clear, you'll no longer take commissions? None at all?"

"Yes, Alma, of course I want the soup, and the lamb chops. Are they ready yet? And a martini, didn't you promise me that as well? And my dear old so-and-so, you're correct, no more commissions. And not another fashion show! Alma and I will leave for the country as soon as I'm back on my feet. Do not make any more appointments for me; I will not honor them."

Cyril turned to Alma and said, "A martini for Reynolds, then; and champagne for us."

"Yes," Alma smiled. "Champagne. Of course."

Reynold watched his wife and sister turn and walk back into the kitchen, Cyril's hand on Alma's shoulder--an uncharacteristically warm touch. He clearly heard her ask Alma, "He's dedicating himself to procreation. Are you prepared for such an undertaking?"

He couldn't make out Alma's reply, but the pop of the champagne cork and their weightless laughter was unmistakeable.


End file.
